


Keep The Lights On

by spnblargh



Series: Keep The Lights On [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x18 coda, Aftercare, Dom/sub, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spanking, Sub Headspace, dom!Dean, sub!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is being thrust with more responsibility than he can handle. Dean, meanwhile, is having any semblance of control taken away by the power of the Mark. It occurs to Castiel that perhaps they can come to some kind of arrangement - if only to keep each other sane. Dom!Dean/Sub!Cas, 9x18 coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep The Lights On

Entering the bunker for the third time is nothing like his previous visits. There's evil here, Castiel knows; it's a feeling of dread that settles in his bones. It's settled between the brothers, too, pushing them apart. They may exist in the same space but they're worlds away from one another, and judging by the concern marring Sam's features and the figurative storm clouds following Dean from room to room, the Mark of Cain is affecting them both.

During the day, Castiel leaves Dean be, accepting that his friend wishes for the solitude of the basement, hauled up with research. It's concerning but he knows better than to push it, so he spends the day with Sam discussing potential plans of action over strong cups of coffee. They talk around the elephant in the room, never quite addressing it.

Night falls and Sam retires early, but Castiel does not sleep. He goes to Dean, his footsteps loud in the bunker's eerie silence. Down in the basement, Dean has three thick books spread out before him, but considering the time of night he sincerely doubts there's any reading actually going on. For a moment, Castiel leans against the doorway, watching him drain a glass of amber liquid and set it down heavily on the wooden table, his gaze far away. 

He knows that Dean's pressing down on it all, tight and compact somewhere deep inside himself. Castiel, however, is determined to expose it; make Dean talk about what's going on within that thick skull of his.

It doesn't take much, in actual fact, to get him talking. Well, shouting. Dean's always been a whirlwind of emotion and now is no exception. As Castiel comes forward, asking the innocuous question of "are you okay?", Dean answers with an aggravated exhale. The thick text he'd been keeping himself occupied with is shoved to the floor, the sound generating a booming echo. Castiel does not flinch in the face of Dean's frustration. He does not fear Dean; he fears _for_ him.

"What do you think, Cas?" Dean growls, pushing himself to his feet. Castiel just stares at him, his chest tight. " _No_ , okay? I won't be anywhere near okay until this is over. I need Abaddon dead and gone, for one. And two, I don't want this—" he pulls back his sleeve roughly, "—controlling me. I'm not asking for much here, just some control over my own goddamn body."

Castiel had noted the empty bottles all around the home; the tremor in Dean's hands; the bruises on his knuckles. The Mark tortures him in creative ways.

Dean's knees have never touched, bow-legged as he is, and there's a wide space between them now as he slumps back into the chair. His exhaustion is bone-deep, his fury unable to keep him standing. It's that space that Castiel moves into, crouching at Dean's feet. "I can't give you control over your own body." He exhales softly, watching the raised scar on Dean's forearm. "But I can give you control over mine."

For a few seconds, they're silent — staring at one another, Dean's pupils wide and dark. 

"What?" he breathes.

Castiel looks away, suddenly exhausted. It's been difficult, these past weeks — being a leader, a shepherd to his flock. Just coming to the bunker without them was a hassle in and of itself. His brethren expect so much from him, to be responsible for not only his life but all of theirs. He does not deserve so much faith. So much control.

He just—he just doesn't want do this, but he must. It is his duty, and he owes it to his brothers and sisters to return them to Heaven. But he's just so tired, can barely carry himself from town to town. Pressing his foot to the accelerator seems like an accomplishment all on its own, and isn't that just sad? 

How does Heaven's worst example of an angel become a leader? Failure is not an option, but given his history...

He shakes himself. He's getting distracted. Carefully he swallows it all down, closes his eyes for a moment, and he returns to the here and now, feeling the weight of Dean's gaze. His decision is solidified.

Tentatively, he presses a hand to the inside of Dean's thigh. When Dean makes no move to stop him, he runs it along the top of his jeans, more confidently, until he finds one of the hands resting in Dean's lap. He tugs it gently towards him, pressing his lips to those bruised knuckles. Dean's breath hitches.

"Control is what you want," Castiel says quietly, his mouth moving against Dean's calloused skin, suggestive. "Control is what I can give you. Please, Dean," he says, trying to contain his need as best he can - this is not about him. "Please take it from me."

He watches, fascinated, as Dean's pupils stretch further, eclipsing the green. There is desire written in his face, growing stronger, wilder. Dean traces Castiel's lips, his jaw, then travels to the top of his skull. 

When his fingers begin to run through Castiel's hair, he wants to melt into the touch, because he has so longed for affection. He keeps still though, barely breathing, and something new settles in Dean's eyes then: something fierce.

"You sure about this?" he asks, voice low. 

Immediately, Castiel answers, "More than anything."

Dean grabs Castiel's hair and tugs him closer, a little rough. Castiel lets him, pulse thrumming. 

Denim presses against his cheeks, his mouth. Heat seeps through the thick fabric. The grip on his hair is tight, firm; Castiel relaxes into it. His neck becomes boneless, guided easily by Dean's hand. His nose brushes against the bulge in Dean's jeans, and he breathes in deep, enjoying Dean's scent and this new thing between them.

Dean makes quick work of his fly, freeing his erection and exposing it to the cool air. Castiel parts his lips in encouragement, and while they're not making eye contact, Castiel is certain that there is a hungry look on Dean's face.

Perhaps he might have been nervous under normal circumstances. After all, he is by no means an expert lover, and his past experiences do not include fellatio. The tug on his scalp reminds him that Dean will guide him, though — show him exactly what he needs to do. He feels perfectly relaxed, and he waits patiently.

He is pulled closer still, lips brushing against the warm flesh. "Lick it for me," Dean says, voice wavering just a little. Perhaps Dean, instead, is the one who is nervous.

But Castiel can be obedient. He extends his tongue, makes long, slow stripes up and down the shaft. The skin is soft, pleasant, and Dean's musk is a wonderful thing: not too strong, but nevertheless there, lingering. Castiel wants to bury himself closer, nose at the blonde-brown hairs, but he restrains himself. If Dean wants him to do that, he will tell him.

Above him, Castiel hears a sigh - something quiet, something relieved. "Put your hands behind your back," Dean says, his voice more confident now. Castiel locks his wrists behind him, one on top of the other, closes his hands into fists. "Go faster." Castiel does that, too. Another sigh escapes Dean's lips, and it's like music to him, except tailored just for Castiel. More private.

"Suck the head." He adjusts his angle, moves up so he can bob down on the cock, tonguing at the underside. "Take it deeper." He pushes lower. "Deeper." Lower still. "C'mon, Cas, is that as deep as you can go?" He hollows his throat and goes all the way down, the pubic hairs tickling at his nose, tangling with his eyelashes. "That's it, Cas. That's good. _Christ_ , that's good." 

Castiel feels himself trembling a little, overwhelmed by the praise. One by one the ever-present wrinkles in his brow smooth out, the thousand-and-one thoughts in his mind fizzle into white noise, and everything just becomes wet, hot movement.

Minutes pass by, though Castiel has no clue how many. Dean doesn't talk so much, opting to push and pull at Castiel's head. He rewards Castiel with breathy moans and quiet grunts, and occasionally he'll manage a sentence or two, complimenting him, telling him what a good job he's doing. For Castiel, those words rock him to his core — he's screwed up too many times to count and here he is, getting it right on the first go. 

This is supposed to be about Dean, and Castiel doesn't notice it at first but he is definitely aroused, his slacks straining against his erection. There's an itch under his skin, vibrating just beneath the surface, and he so badly desires release but he keeps his hands behind him. He won't give in. He'll be good.

Dean must notice his predicament, because he distracts him by curling his palm around Castiel's jaw, tracing along the joint and down to his lips, feeling them stretched open. Dean chuckles, low and teasing. "You like this, huh?" he tells him, breaching Castiel's mouth with his thumb, stretching it wider.

It's a rhetorical question, Castiel knows. The answer is obvious. His eyes fall closed, concentrating on the feel of Dean's hands, his cock. The itch is becoming unbearable, however, the brush of his pants becoming too difficult to ignore. He clenches his fists tighter.

"Touch yourself," Dean says, as commanding as everything else he's told him this evening. Castiel shudders, wondering if it's all too good to be true. "Keep your pants on, though. Only touch yourself through the fabric, understand?" Castiel blinks up at him, and there must be need written all over his face, because Dean gives him a wide smirk. "Hey, don't look at me like that, angel."

He's not sure why that arouses him so much. By all means it should be like Castiel calling Dean a 'human', yet it is so, so different. A rasping groan is forced out of his throat, unbidden. He hastens to obey, near sobbing at the relief found in the press of his palm.

Dean's watching him, still stretching Castiel's mouth with his thumb. He grows all the more desperate while Dean remains perfectly calm; relaxed but unquestionably in control. If he was able to, Castiel would smile, content that he was able to do this for Dean. 

Eventually, as Castiel brings himself closer to orgasm, Dean's grip becomes harsher, his breath punching out of him. Dean must be close, too. Concentrating, Castiel eases off his own erection, wanting to focus entirely on Dean's needs. No distractions. Each suck is met with an increasingly stronger thrust, Dean's hips shooting back and forth, his pelvis squishing the point of Castiel's nose, his cock hitting the back of his throat. Castiel closes his eyes once more, relaxes entirely.

When Dean finally comes, it's with his head hanging back, mouth open and tantalising. He shoves his cock in faster, more erratically, a few hairs being tugged free from Castiel's scalp from how hard he's holding on. There is warmth on every side of him, Dean's thighs clamping against his ears, and the hand that was playing with Castiel's lips is instead at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. 

As he begins to slow down, Castiel releases a quiet exhale through his nose, still keeping himself in position between Dean's knees, his mouth a vacuum seal around his dick, with one hand behind his back. Dean's come is warm and salty — not the nicest taste in the world, but certainly bearable. He swallows it down in a single gulp.

Dean huffs raggedly and the pull on his hair disappears. Castiel tries not to mourn its loss.

"You gonna come, Cas?" Dean asks, his voice hoarse, one eyebrow raised. When Castiel just stares at him, waiting, Dean smiles, eyes glinting, and gives his cheek a hard pat. "Let me rephrase: I want you to come. So..." He strokes Castiel's cheekbone, his skin catching against Castiel's stubble. "You better come in the next ten seconds. Or you don't come at all."

Castiel presses down on his erection immediately, desperate. Dean pushes Castiel's mouth off his softening dick, tiling his face up to look him in the eye. "Come on, Cas." Castiel rubs himself through his pants, frustrated by the material. His cheeks are flushed, and seeing Dean this close makes everything that much more intense. His eyes dart away but Dean holds him firmly in place. "Look at me." Castiel does, whimpering. "I want to see you when you come, you hear me?"

Oh, Castiel hears him. The orgasm builds quickly, being already so close, though the feel of his palm is not as satisfying as he wishes. Blessedly, it's enough to push him over the edge in time, his pleasure making his toes curl in his shoes, his mouth opening on a silent cry. Castiel's eyes are wide open, determined to hold Dean's gaze even when he can barely keep himself upright. 

It's mid-orgasm that Castiel receives his first kiss from Dean. Dean, who had been observing Castiel's pleasure through half-lidded eyes, pupils still blown wide, closes the gap between them and kisses him harshly. There's passion and a hint of teeth, pulling a high-pitched sound from Castiel's throat. He kisses him throughout the orgasm and into the aftermath, their mouths gaping and wet, Castiel at the mercy of his tongue. 

His mind is a blank slate, empty and buzzing. Suddenly he's somewhere far away, on his own cloud, perhaps back in the meadows of Heaven, lazing on the grass and inhaling the scent of lavender. There is sunlight here, perpetual, unchanging, and it tickles his skin, lights a fire in his soul. Well, if angels had such things.

There are bees here, too. He doesn't remember this meadow having bees, but he's grateful for their presence, takes joy in their little legs trekking up his fingers or along the bridge of his nose. He inhales again, really absorbs that lavender, and feels every tendril of his Grace stretch out like a lazy cat.

Some indefinite time later he realises that he is, in fact, still in the bunker, not Heaven. The soft purring in his mind fizzles out completely once reality settles in, as cold as the concrete floors against his knees.

Dean is gone. Ventured upstairs, perhaps, in need of space. Castiel hopes that's all it is, anyway.

He remains crouched on the ground for a moment longer, frowning, until eventually he manages to pull himself together. There's a slight tremor in his legs — which is odd, considering the all-powerful Grace coursing through his body — but he's fine, for the most part. That empty, gnawing sensation in his chest is nothing significant.

\---

Castiel learns many things from Dean each time they tumble into bed together. Namely, that while he could feel incredible pain as a human from a simple act like stubbing his toe, when he's juiced up, he experiences something like numbness instead. The force of Dean's slaps against his rear, or the purple teeth marks against his neck (The ones he could heal in an instant, if he so chose) make his skin tingle, elicit shivers along his skin. He may not feel pain but he does take great pleasure in being spread out on the mattress, or having his limbs stretched into interesting positions. 

Above all else, he experiences relief when they're together. It feels so good to obey without question, knowing that no harm will come to anyone but himself for doing so. Dean makes the calls, and Castiel follows; Dean pushes Castiel as far as he needs him to, and Castiel is malleable, not to mention an enthusiastic learner. 

Initially, their meetings are short and infrequent. Castiel's constantly on the road and leading his troupe, and Dean and Sam are up to their ears in cases. Castiel manages to slip away once in a while, and he and Dean meet in an alley or a 2-star motel bathroom. It's not pretty but it's what they need, their twenty minutes of uninterrupted ecstasy feeling like the only light in this dark, demanding world they live in.

Weeks go by. They find new ways to make time for one another, and Castiel is getting better at lying to his kin. They see each other twice a week if they're lucky and have spent hours together on certain occasions. The more regular their meet-ups, the lighter the burden on Castiel's shoulders. Leadership is no longer an omnipresent, daunting task, not when Castiel gets to have a weekend off (So to speak).

As for Dean, well...he is different when they're together. Controlled, borderline deadly, maybe. The sex is always rough, loud; treading the line between pleasure and torture. Dean brings Castiel quickly to the edge of orgasm and then leaves him hanging, disappointed and needy. He smirks in the face of Castiel's desperation, and gags him when he can't keep silent any more. The spanking is erratic, unpredictable, and he's punished if he flinches. Dean taunts him, calls him _angel_ or _sweetheart_ , and fucks him until all the air in his lungs is punched out of him, or his breathing's so ragged he's practically sobbing. 

Castiel would be concerned that this was pushing Dean further down a violent path. If it were not for the start of their sessions, that is.

It always begins the same, after that first time in the basement: Castiel strips down to nothing, Dean observing silently in front of him. Once naked, Castiel sits on the bed and folds his hands in his lap, then bows his head, closes his eyes. He awaits instructions.

From there, Dean will always crouch before him, lightly touch his chin, tilting his head back up. "If you want me to stop," he says quietly, "you tell me. Okay, buddy?"

And, like always, Dean will not proceed until Castiel whispers, "Okay."

Castiel knows that there is no danger in what they do. Because, at the end of the day, Dean always asks, never takes. And no matter how bad things get in the real world, there is always a softness in Dean's eyes when they're alone like this, right before things get heated and that mask of control slips on.

It's not about living out some twisted, violent fantasy. It's about freedom. And, well, if there's an unpleasant twist in his gut whenever Dean leaves immediately afterwards, then Castiel will just have to adjust.

\---

It's a Thursday night, and Sam's in another town for a case. Dean had insisted on staying back, saying that he had 'more important things to do'. Castiel, meanwhile, had instructed Hannah to keep an eye on their brethren. He double-checks the sigils before he leaves — the ones around the makeshift base they've commandeered on the outskirts of Illinois. 

Dean meets him at a cheap motel close by, and they fall into each other without so much as a 'hello'. 

There's a lot of spanking this session. Dean must be in a mood. Castiel's ass is a brilliant shade of red, two stinging hand prints on both of his cheeks. The skin is hot and numb, goosebumps creeping from the base of his spine all the way up to the top of his neck. The pleasure was heavily drawn out, too, with Castiel being on edge for close to forty minutes straight, practically screaming for Dean to give him something, anything to make him come. He should know better than to plead, though — Dean just delights in prolonging it all the more. It was over an hour before he finally got to orgasm, and he couldn't stop shivering when it was all said and done.

They've both finished, and so Castiel's mind is drifting, his whole body feeling like it's floating an inch off the mattress. When he's come to in the past, Dean's usually left the room, or at the very least fully clothed and checking his phone while he waits. Castiel's not sure why his brain is just an echo of white noise once they're done, or why his chest feels like it's been scraped raw. As an angel, his emotions are supposed to be far more subdued, but they're always there, gathering at the corners of his eyes, never quite able to fall.

In his blank state, Castiel wonders about this, trying to understand what it is his body is doing. Maybe it's the mismatched Grace in him having some kind of reaction, though Castiel cannot come up with a reason as to why it would. Bodies are strange phenomenon. Castiel, too, is very strange. It's interesting to reflect on such things, everything feeling so much more surreal than normal.

There's a peculiar feeling travelling up his arm. Castiel doesn't know what it is, and he can't summon the energy to make himself look. Movement is far from necessary right now.

"Hey." A voice. Dean's, maybe. How odd. "Hey, man, you okay?" That sounds like concern. No, perhaps it's not Dean, then. Dean wouldn't hang around unnecessarily. "Talk to me."

The weight on his arm feels strangely like a hand. It won't let go. It shakes him a little. "Hey, Castiel. You in there?" Castiel frowns, trying to swat the hand away. "Hey, c'mon." The voice grows gentle. "You gotta come back to me, okay?"

It sounds like a command, albeit a kind one. Castiel blinks, his eyes feeling akin to sandpaper. He groans, the cavity in his chest yawning wide, the goosebumps along his body increasing in numbers. "Not yet," he mumbles, turning into something soft beneath him. A pillow, he thinks. "I can't. Not...not yet..."

"You're all right, Cas. I'm here," Dean says, a warm weight settling on Castiel's cheek now. If he's not dreaming, Dean must be caressing him. That would be far, far removed from their usual routine. 

If it _is_ real, it breaks routine, so Castiel convinces himself to look, even though his chest hurts like hell. Dean is definitely above him, touching his cheek. His torso is completely naked but he seems to have put his pants on already. The fluorescent lights create a golden frame around his face, and Castiel can't help but smile. Dean is beautiful. It's nice to see him this close up.

Dean smiles encouragingly, his thumb grazing his cheekbone. "Hey there, buddy. You back in the land of the living?"

Cas clears his throat before answering, "Unfortunately, yes." Dean chuckles.

There's a long moment where they just gaze at one another, both of them trying to gauge what to say next. Castiel barely has any control over his body at the moment, so he's content to leave the ball in Dean's court for the time being.

Dean exhales, his mouth then settling into a grim line. "These... _scenes_ , I guess, they make me forget about all of the crap going on out there. Coming down from it, I get kinda...pissed off. You know, 'cause reality ain't sunshine and roses." He takes another deep breath. "And meanwhile, while I'm wrapped up in my own head, you were here spacing out like crazy." He shakes his head, self-deprecating. 

Castiel frowns. "I'm fine."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Dude, it was like you were on some kind of acid trip. A bad one."

"A bad one?"

"You were getting all—" he gestures towards his face, "—teary-eyed and stuff. _So_ not a happy camper, dude."

"How odd." He pauses, frown deepening. "Human bodies will never cease to bemuse and baffle me."

Dean grins at that, but he still looks concerned. "I think somebody could do with a bit of, uh, 'after care'," Dean says, trailing his hand down to cup Castiel's neck. "I shoulda known better. Christ, I'm so shitty at this."

Castiel means to protest, but then he's being pulled against Dean's chest, tucked beneath his chin, muscular arms a protective wall around him. Dean is warm, his skin remarkably soft and freckled. Their feet brush against one another, knees knocking.

At first, Castiel is confused, completely taken aback by the affection. He begins to settle, however, melting into the embrace, and suddenly the cavern in his chest starts to knit back together again. The minutes tick by unhurried, and eventually the buzzing in his ears quiets down too, lucidity peeking its head back out some time later. 

When Sam had taught Castiel how to hug, he hadn't truly understood what human touch was capable of. Now he is much more appreciative.

"Thank you," Castiel says, voice muffled against Dean's neck. His toes curl when he feels the laughter bubble up in Dean's chest, the bump of his Adam's apple against his forehead.

"Don't thank me," Dean says, his arms pulling minutely tighter.

Silence has always been a speciality of theirs. Neither of them ever really feels awkward when it happens, even now with this layer of intimacy settled upon them. After what seems like an hour, Dean extracts himself, putting some space between them and examining Castiel's body. There are fresh bruises blossoming around his hipbones, hickeys all over his neck and pectorals, and the redness on his rear won't fade for a few more hours. Dean presses a thumb to Castiel's swollen bottom lip, the touch nearly pulling a whimper from his throat.

Dean shifts again, propping himself up so that he's looking down at him. "Look, I gotta be honest here, man. What we're doing here is doing a world of good for me. I have fun, okay? But if it weren't for this," he thumbs the Mark of Cain pointedly, "I'm not sure if I'd like doing these things to you." There's a far off look in his eyes. "I think the Mark's changing a lot of me. Seriously, I dunno if there's much of me left in here."

"You're in there," Castiel soothes, brushing hair away from Dean's forehead. "The waters are murky, but I can see you quite clearly."

Dean huffs. "You like what you see, apparently," he says, again glancing at the hickeys scattered like petals across his skin.

Castiel grins. "You're okay, I suppose." Dean whacks him light-heartedly, beaming.

They fall quiet, and a frown settles in on Dean's face once again. Castiel hates that frown. "Cas, I just—I don't want the Mark to control me. I don't want this," he gestures between them, "to be some crazy side effect from it, you know? This should be..." He scrubs his face. "You know. Genuine, I guess." 

It's such a Dean-like confession, and the honesty behind it lights a fire beneath his ribcage, the embers warming him slowly from the inside out.

For a minute or so, Castiel mulls everything over, running a hand absent-mindedly over the firm planes of Dean's chest. "I think..." he swallows. "Once this is over — namely, you without a death-wish on your arm—" Dean snorts, "—and me being somewhere other than at the forefront of another heavenly mission—"

"Which is rare for you."

"Which is rare for me," Castiel agrees, "then I think we could..." He meets Dean's stare, noting the apprehension in his eyes. "Maybe we could re-evaluate. This, I mean." He shrugs one shoulder. "Reconsider the current paradigm."

Dean shakes his head. "You're unbelievable. _'Paradigm'_ , really?"

"Yes," Castiel says defensively. "The current paradigm. For now, it's working for us. Later on, perhaps it won't. In that event, we will make the necessary adjustments."

A small smile curves across his face. "Adjustments, huh?"

Castiel nods, returning the smile. "Adjustments."

There's a pause, and then Dean leans over to close the space between their lips. It's a quick kiss, barely lingering. Above all else, however, it's tender.


End file.
